A Question of Friendship
by Alcamenes
Summary: R/Hr--In their seventh year at Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione are the best of friends they've ever been which begs the question...can guys and girls really just be friends? In this case? Maybe not.
1. Gals and Blokes

A/N You know, originally I was going to wait until I had at least five chapters of this baby written up before posting, considering my poor updating habits, but bugger it. I can't wait anymore ;) So here's the newest little ditty I've come up with…really it's not supposed to be realistic (or terribly original for that matter). It's just supposed to be fluff; good, old, unadulterated fluff ;P

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, etc. are the intellectual property of JKR; no infringement is intended.

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A Question of Friendship

Chapter 1: Gals and Blokes

There was an old adage that gals and blokes couldn't be friends. Ron Weasley had heard about it from an old Muggle film he'd been forced into seeing, once, and at the time he'd laughed. Of course girls and blokes could be friends! After all, wasn't his best friend a girl? True, their friendship had evolved quite a bit over the years but Hermione Granger was still the same witty, intelligent person he'd met seven years back as an unsure (though still know-it-all) eleven-year old. And he? Well he was still the same sarcastic redhead he'd been then, jumping at any chance he could to rile her up. There was one remarkable difference, however; they'd grown out of their constant arguing and had moved, instead, to a state of comfortable bickering.

In fact, everything about the pair had become more comfortable. The two still had differences of opinion every now and then—if 'every now and then' meant four or five times an hour—but the way in which they dealt with these small spiffs had changed. It still involved plenty of petty name calling, a lot of shouting, and the cowering of nearly everyone who happened to be around them, but no argument was so horrible that within a minute or two they'd be unable to call it truce and resume their earlier activities—activities that typically involved playing chess, doing homework, or sneaking about the school with Harry.

Had Hermione been asked in fourth year how she saw her relationship with Ron and Harry evolve, she might have blushed and said that she and Harry would grow only closer with time, as close as brother and sister could be, but in Ron's case, what she'd had in mind hadn't necessarily turned out in reality. Could girls and blokes be friends? Hermione wasn't too sure about that, at least not when it came to a certain redhead, the same that now sat (or rather was sprawled) to her right.

"Oi, this is interesting," he said to her. They were in the common room, sharing a sofa while reading their History of Magic assignments. Harry was sitting in an armchair across from them, snoring softly after having fallen asleep mid-read.

"Do you think we should wake him?" Hermione asked, ignoring Ron's question for the moment as she tried to readjust her position on the sofa; her legs were asleep.

"Nah, let him rest," Ron answered, thrusting his book in Hermione's face "did _you_ know that in ancient times, some wizards were known to have upwards of fifty wives?" he asked, pointing vaguely to a passage in the textbook.

"Why is that so interesting?" Hermione asked, a little more pointedly than she might have had pins and needles not been running rampant through her lower extremities.

"Well, wouldn't you like having fifty different blokes to choose from at any given time and have it be perfectly fine with the other forty nine?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows at her, causing her to roll her eyes.

"You are such a man," she dismissed, deciding that until she got circulation back to her entire body she wasn't going to get into this with him.

"Why are you so fidgety all of a sudden? Stop moving so much," he said and Hermione had to bite the inside of her cheek to refrain from slapping him.

"I've only lost all feeling in my lower half," she explained. "Of course, it doesn't help that I've an extra ten pounds sitting in my lap."

"Don't be ridiculous, Hermione," Ron answered, lifting his head from the sofa's armrest, "the book isn't _that_ heavy."

"Actually, Ron," she replied, looking down at her knees, "I was referring to those long things called _your legs_."

He smiled sheepishly at her before swinging his legs of her lap and sitting up beside her, draping his arm behind her head. "Sorry, but you know I always study better lying down."

"Yes, but what I don't understand is why you always insist on using _me_ as a sofa cushion."

"What can I say, Hermione? You're my most comfortable pillow," he laughed, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. "Do you need me to carry you upstairs or will your poor legs make it on their own?" he teased her, whispering in her ear.

"I'm fine," Hermione answered, elbowing him lightly in the ribs to extricate herself from his non-embrace. "If I needed help, I'd just ask one of my fifty blokes," she said, gathering her things and standing.

"Aren't I one of the fifty!?" he asked, feigning insult before she turned her back to him and walked to the staircase.

"You wish," she threw over her shoulder before making her way up, feeling her cheeks burn as she headed towards the dormitories.

No, gals and blokes certainly couldn't be friends. There were exceptions, of course, like with her and Harry, but otherwise, when it came down to it, one of the two would always end up developing feelings for the other…_always_. And, of course, with her luck, Hermione had been the one to break first. The thing about developing feelings for your best friend was that if you told him and he didn't feel the same way about you, the friendship was down the drain. She didn't need to tell him to know that he would reject her. Ron Weasley was much too preoccupied with other girls…like his fifty theoretical wives…to ever think about her as anything other than his friend.

~*~

Breakfast found Hermione tired and irritable. She was tired because she'd tossed and turned all night thinking about her friendship with Ron, and irritable because he seemed every bit as well-rested and happy as she was exhausted and miserable.

"'Morning, sunshine," he winked at her before sitting across from her and appropriating himself with a piece of toast.

"Oh, bugger," she muttered under her breath. His robes were open in front, his tie hung loosely around his neck, and the first few buttons of his collared shirt lay undone, showing off expanses of his chest beyond the white cotton. Hermione had never wanted to be a piece of clothing more than she did right then.

"You all right, Hermione? You look all ferklempt," he winked at her again, and an alarming thought ran through her head. Did he know what he was doing to her? She was not able to come at any conclusive answer, however, for fault of being interrupted by Seamus and Dean.

"'Morning Ron, 'Mione," Seamus greeted them, sitting next to Ron. She cringed at the nickname he'd used. Sometime between fourth and seventh year, someone, somewhere, had gotten it into his or her head that her name was just too long (_what with all eight letters of it…a record really_) to pronounce fully and had come to call her 'Mione. She hated it, and of course it had stuck. She was about to say something when Ron beat her to it.

"Seamus, her name is Hermione. You know she doesn't like being called 'Mione," he said and Hermione felt her chest swell. He was just being Ron, knowing that the name bothered her, but it still warmed her to know he was coming to her defense.

"Thank you, Ron," she smiled at him, ignoring Seamus's and Dean's stares.

"Sure thing, Herm," he grinned and she had to roll her eyes.

"Ready; to get going _Ronnie_?" she asked sweetly, silently celebrating as he cringed in turn.

"Yes, _Hermione_," he answered, gathering his things and standing. She did the same and together they headed to the greenhouses for Herbology. As they walked, Ron attempted to straighten himself up, buttoning up his shirt and running his hand haphazardly through his hair, but for some reason his tie did not seem to want to cooperate that morning. As they neared the greenhouse, he stopped midstride and turned to Hermione, eyes pleading and mouth downturned in an exaggerated pout.

"Oh, come here," she said, handing him the books she held (for fault of an already too full rucksack).

"Thank you," he smiled, taking a step towards her.

"You'll have to bend down a little so I can see," Hermione said and Ron thought she sounded a little breathless but attributed it to their walk through the grounds. He tended to forget how much smaller she was, and how much longer his legs happened to be, and sometimes she would be practically running just to keep up. 

He bent down a little so that she'd be able to reach his uncooperative tie and met her eyes, turning up a corner of his lips. Was that a blush creeping up her cheeks? When her fingers fumbled with the knot at his throat and inadvertently brushed over the skin at his neck, Ron found his own cheeks warming inexplicably and felt his stomach lurch. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but it was one he seemed to be feeling increasingly nowadays.

"All done," Hermione broke through his thoughts and he straightened again, handing her back her books and walking the rest of the way to the greenhouse, trying to account for the bizarre fluttering in his chest. Maybe he was coming down with something.

~*~

Herbology was a class that Ron enjoyed if only for the fact that it was more practical than theoretical and while they potted plants, trimmed brushes, or extracted various herbal compounds, Harry, Hermione and he could talk as much as they wanted.

"Sorry I missed you at breakfast, guys," Harry was saying. The three of them usually walked to class together but Ron and Hermione had known in advance that he would be late that morning for fault of having had an early-morning Quidditch practice.

"You did have time to eat, didn't you Harry? You know that breakfast is the most important meal, don't you?" Hermione doted and Ron rolled his eyes. "Would you stop acting like my mother, Hermione? He's seventeen years old; he can take care of himself."

"Ron, you're almost eighteen and just this morning I had to help you get dressed," Hermione replied, turning several heads. Ron grinned widely at the hidden meaning behind her words…a meaning that she'd obviously not intended but was quite apparent nonetheless.

"I really don't want to know," Harry muttered beside them and Ron felt that odd flutter in his stomach again when Hermione realized what she had just said and blushed brightly.

"That's _not_ what I meant," she attempted to explain as several of the students around them began to snigger. "Ron, you're really not helping. _Say_ something," she whispered loudly between semi-clenched teeth. Ron merely shrugged.

"Hey, I'm not complaining. It's not every morning that a beautiful girl helps me get dressed," he said, expecting Hermione to throw him a death glare because of his untimely teasing, but instead—and to his great surprise—she only seemed to blush more, eyeing her feet.

~*~

He thought she was beautiful! At least that's what he had said. _Maybe he didn't realize what he was saying_ she thought for the hundredth time that day. It was a wonder she'd gotten through the day at all, really, considering that all she'd thought about was Ron calling her beautiful.

"Pathetic," she said outloud, referring to how soft she'd gotten just because of a _word_…a word from a bloke who only thought about her as a _friend_.

"What's pathetic?" She hadn't expected anyone to hear her but, turning around, saw Ron and Harry coming in after their Divinations class. It was Harry who had spoken and he now came to sit in his usual chair, across from her, dropping his rucksack on the floor at his feet.

"What a day!" Ron exclaimed, dropping his bag as well, sitting next to Hermione.

"We're getting old," Harry agreed. "All I want to do is sleep," he announced, yawning.

"Tell me about," Ron agreed, loosening his tie and removing his robes. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing a fin layer of red hairs dispersed over tanned arms. "All I want to do is snuggle up to my favorite pillow and have a bit of a lie down before dinner. Do you mind, Hermione?" He turned to her as though asking for permission, though she didn't know why. If he wanted to go upstairs and sleep it was his prerogative.

"Not at all," she replied, still confused. Things became clearer, however, when instead of standing and heading to the dormitories he lowered his head to her lap, covering himself with his robes in a makeshift blanket.

"Ron!" she protested though she was fighting the urge to giggle. _Soft, soft, soft!_

"What? You said you didn't mind. You know you're the best pillow in this joint, Hermione. Now would you be quiet? I'm trying to sleep."

"Harry, would you help me here?" Hermione looked at her other friend, who merely shook his head at her from his oversized chair.

"Sorry, Hermione. Truth is, Ron beat me to it."

"Hey, get your own." Ron lifted his head sharply.

"Yes sir," Harry laughed, holding up his hands in a peaceful gesture.

"Don't mind him, Harry," Hermione smacked Ron gently, "you know he's a grump when he's tired."

"I am not!" Ron defended himself. "I'm just trying to sleep. Is that so wrong!?"

"All right, all right. I guess I'll just settle for my bed then." Harry stood, turning to Hermione. "Wake me up in an hour?"

"Sure, Harry," Hermione replied as he retreated up the dormitory steps. She would have scolded Ron some more if he hadn't already been sound asleep.

She had to admit that he was beautiful when he slept. His chest rose rhythmically with each breath he took and his face was relaxed, like that of a small child, with rosy patches appearing over his cheeks. He shifted, turning first to his side and then to his stomach, his head turned to face her knees. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin and Ron's left arm came up to creep behind her back whereas his right hand came to rest by his face, on her knee.

She shouldn't be watching him sleep, she knew. The Gryffindors, though they were used to seeing the two of them together, occasionally even half-sprawled over one another while studying, surely would be suspicious were they to spot her staring adoringly at her best friend while he slept. Still, she stole a longer look at him, taking in the curve of his jaw, the seeming softness of his lips, the angle of his nose, and the shock red of his hair. She longed to run her hands through it, just to see what it would feel like, see if it was really as soft as she imagined it to be. She reached out her hand, slowly, deliberately until it hovered just over his ear. She reached for one of the strands, careful at first, reluctant, afraid to wake him, but she became bolder and soon was running her hand through his hair comfortably, naturally, as though she'd always done so.

"My mother used to do that to make me sleep when I was sick," he whispered and Hermione jumped in surprise, removing her hand as though it'd been scaled.

"You're supposed to be asleep right now," she pointed out, reverting to her nagging to cover up the fact that she'd in fact just been caught _caressing_ her best friend's hair while he slept.

"I was until you woke me up," he replied, turning onto his back to look up in her face, a small smile playing over lips that just minutes ago she'd been admiring. "I'm a light sleeper, you know."

"Well, I do now," Hermione replied, wondering how she was going to cover up her reasons, knowing that sooner or later he'd question her on just why she'd been stroking his hair in the first place. 

"So why were you playing with my hair anyway?" Sometimes she hated being right.

"Call it the motherly instinct in me, I guess. I don't think I even realized what I was doing," she answered surprised at her own lie and at how convincing it sounded.

"Well don't stop on my account." Ron smiled up at her and she felt her heart lurch. "I was getting a wicked headache before you started but now it's almost gone. You work magic with those hands of yours, " he said.

"Well, I _am_ a witch," she smiled.


	2. Wonderfully Queasy

A/N Oh boy, people; this just gets more and more plotless as we go along--well at least in the way of fluff. But, to make up for it, there _is_ a kiss in this chapter…sort of :) Thanks for all the lovely reviews. I wasn't going to post this until Saturday, but I thought I'd jump the gun a little.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, etc. are the intellectual property of JKR; no infringement is intended.

Chapter 2: Wonderfully Queasy

When Ron, sitting near the fire, saw the sky outside darken and heard the first rumble of thunder, he immediately thought of Hermione. She absolutely adored thunderstorms and it was their custom at times like these to gather up their books and belongings and head for the Great Hall, usually empty, and watch the storm from the inside.

"Harry, you seen my favorite pillow?" Ron turned away from the window and faced Harry whose nose was stuck in a Quidditch manual. Ron would have thought Harry had failed to hear him if he hadn't seen the corner of his friend's lip curl up unmistakably.

"If you're talking about your female best friend…and mine, for that matter…then I think she's down in the library."

"Of course she is; you'd think I'd have figured that out by now."

"Well, you were always the denser of the two," Harry teased, though Ron detected a slight undertone to his words.

"What's that mean?" he asked.

"Absolutely nothing, mate, absolutely nothing," Harry smirked.

"Is that so?" Ron questioned, convinced that Harry was privy to a secret joke. "Will you stop being cryptic then and come to the library? It's going to storm and Hermione's going to miss the whole thing sitting down there with all those silencing charms."

"Right behind you," Harry replied, gathering his things and following him out of the portrait hole. As Ron had predicted, Hermione was absolutely unaware of what was going on outside and was hunched over a pile of books, writing furiously on a piece of parchment.

"What are you doing here?" she asked when she was them approaching.

"Relax, Hermione. We're here to bust you out and drag you to the great hall," Ron said as he began gathering together papers and piling together books.

"The great hall? Why on earth would we go to the great hall at this time of…oh," Ron smiled when he saw her face brighten. "Is it storming?" she asked, her voice just short of a squeal.

"Isn't she the smart one," Harry winked at Ron.

"Well, she is our best friend," Ron replied, gathering up the rest of her things and picking up her rucksack, grunting lightly as he pulled the heavy thing over his shoulder.

"Your better third, I'd say," Hermione jested, a large smile now playing over her face as she linked her arm into Harry's and led him out of the library. Ron, holding the books and papers, was left following behind, and for some inexplicable reason, found himself resisting the urge to punch Harry in the face.

"Wait." Hermione stopped abruptly. "We are going to do work even though we're watching the storm, aren't we?" Hermione asked.

"Of course we are," Ron and Harry answered simultaneously though there was nothing to worry about. The second Hermione set foot in that Great Hall she would forget all about homework.

~*~

"I love this," Hermione sighed as another flash of lightning streaked across the ceiling above them, throwing a flash of light across their faces, illuminating them briefly in an otherwise darkened room.

"And to think you nearly missed the whole thing," Ron smiled at her, turning his head in her direction though he could only make out her outline in the dark.

They were all three lying down on one of the long wood tables, side by side, Hermione in the middle. Her arms were curled around one of each of his and Harry's and every time thunder sounded, Ron would feel the strength of her grip increase slightly. He'd noticed how she was the only one of the three of them would could lie down completely across the table's width. Harry's feet were dangling over the edge at the ankles and half of Ron's legs were hovering in mid-air, but hers were completely supported and Ron imagined that her ankles were probably crossed leisurely over one another, right over left. He had no idea just how he knew this, nor when he'd noticed that she had a habit of doing it, but even in the dark he knew it to be true as certainly as he knew his hair to be red.

"You two are the best, you know that?" Hermione said, and this time the squeeze Ron felt on his arm was one of affection rather than one of fear. Another bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky above them, breaking through the clouds and Ron thought it made Hermione's skin glow beautifully; he hadn't even been aware that he was still looking at her.

"You know, I don't think that Lavender would have fetched Parvati if she'd been held up in the library during a thunderstorm," Hermione was still talking. "I guess you guys really love me, eh?"

"Hermione," Harry groaned.

"Er, uh, er," Ron said.

"It's okay, you don't have to compromise your masculinity by saying it out loud. I know it's true, and for the record I love you both."

"Hermione!" they both protested, but Ron's protest was a little more feeble than Harry's for fault of a rather gigantic lump in his throat and a madly beating heart. His stomach was doing some rather bizarre things, too. The fluttering he was used to was now a mad beating of wings.

"What? It's true," Hermione defended. "I love you, Harry," he heard her say and a moment later heard the sound of lips smacking against skin, "and I love you, Ron," she said though he thought her voice sounded different somehow when she'd spoken to him. He felt her breath against his face and a moment later her lips against his own. She'd been aiming for his cheek, of course, but as he'd been facing her she'd miscalculated her aim in the dark. Ron felt almost—disappointed—when her lips left his less than a second later; of course that couldn't be. She was his best friend; that was all. He'd been loads closer to her than this a thousand times before and it hadn't bothered him. Why this? Why now? Besides, she probably didn't even know that she'd kissed him in the first place. Well, of course she _knew_ that she'd kissed him, it wasn't as though she hadn't before or as though he hadn't kissed her cheek or forehead when she'd been crying, but never like this…never on the lips. Of, for Merlin's sake, she was like a sister to him! But just as that particular thought entered his head he knew it to be untrue. He'd never be so overanalytical if Ginny were to miss his cheek and kiss his mouth; he'd just dismiss it and forget it.

Damn…he'd need to see Madam Pomfrey. There was definitely something wrong with him.

~*~

"What do you mean there's nothing wrong with me?"

"Mr. Weasley, I've just run a battery of tests that would detect the most obscure of illnesses in the most healthy of individuals. Believe me when I say that you are as healthy as they come."

"But that's impossible. Madam Pomfrey, I'm obviously not imagining all of these symptoms."

"Right." She looked down at her clipboard. "Rapid heartbeat, flushing, sweaty hands and 'weird fluttery stomach thing'. Am I missing anything?"

"You forgot dementia…all that overanalyzing is making me completely starkers."

"Yes, that's right, 'dementia'. Well, Mr. Weasley, I don't know what to say unless perhaps you're having an odd allergic reaction to…something. I suggest you find the common denominator in these symptoms and then perhaps you'll be able to make more sense out of them."

"Isn't there a potion I can take, or something?"

"If what I'm suspecting is true, Ronald, you've already done marvelously without that particular potion."

~*~

__

Well that was a waste of time, he thought as he made his way across the grounds towards Herbology. The grass was still soggy from last night's storm, making Ron's shoes muddy and putting him in an even fouler mood. To make matters worst, he'd spent the entire night tossing and turning, waking up from dreams he didn't remember but strongly suspected involved kissing his best friend—his very female, very intelligent (very beautiful) _best friend_. And, on top of everything else, said best friend had looked every bit as happy and well rested that morning as he'd been exhausted and miserable. 

He was still so exhausted and miserable, in fact, that when he reached the Herbology classroom after having skipped lunch to go see the school nurse, he almost walked right past where Harry and Hermione were stationed.

"Ron, you're late! We were worried something had happened to you when we didn't see you at lunch. Is everything all right? You realize that you might have missed something that could be on the exam, don't you?" Ron tuned her out at this point, putting on dragonhide gloves when he noticed that they were supposed to be harvesting Bubotuber pus. He was feeling a little better, though; Hermione was still lecturing him, but at least he didn't feel an ounce of fluttering in his stomach. Maybe he was cured.

"Hermione, let him get a word in, at least," he heard Harry interrupt her while sealing a vial that had already been filled. Hermione immediately stopped talking and turned her eyes on him expectantly.

"I went to see Madam Pomfrey, no big—" but he was cut off.

"Madam Pomfrey? Ron, are you okay?" Hermione asked, removing her gloves and pulling him down by the collar so that she could feel his forehead and then his cheek. The fluttering came back full-force as she did so; he was obviously in relapse.

"Fine," he said gruffly, breaking from her touch as his stomach did that weird flip-floppy thing again.

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked; there seemed to be true concern in her eyes and it only made his stomach worse.

"Clean bill of health," he assured her, "now can we please get working?" he asked, turning to the task at hand.

"You're sure you're all right?" Harry asked as well, probably alarmed that Ron actually _wanted_ to get to work, and Ron nodded, beginning to turn toward him. In doing so, however he accidentally knocked over the vial Harry had just capped. He watched it as though it were flying in slow motion, spinning a few times in the air, its contents flying out as the cork came out, and the bulk of the Bubotuber pus landing—in Hermione's hair.

"Oh dear," Madam Sprout noted from the front of the class. "You'd better go rinse that out immediately, Miss Granger. Mr. Weasley can help you," she said as they hurried out of the greenhouse and into the back room where there was a large sink.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," he apologized for the umpteenth time as she dunked her head under the running water.

"Ron, don't worry about it, all right? Just help me wash this out before it turns my hair green or something. I can't see what I'm doing," she said and Ron came to step next to her, his leg pressed up against her side so that he'd be able to get close enough to the sink.

He'd never washed anyone's hair before, except of course his own, but his short, straight locks did not compare to Hermione's long curls. Using the liquid soap next to the sink, he poured a generous amount in his hands. It wasn't shampoo, but it would have to do.

Carefully he worked the soap through her hair, his fingers tingling as he did so. It could have been because of the Bubotuber pus, he didn't know, but the tingling seemed to move from his fingertips and right down his spine, making him shiver. Hermione's hair seemed so much longer, darker, and thicker when it was wet, and it was soft…incredibly soft. Why hadn't he ever noticed how soft?

From her position, the back of her neck was exposed and Ron felt the incredibly urge to run his hands over it, to continue from the little bump where her spinal column began and smooth his hand down her back and over her shoulders.

"Er, I think you're done," he stopped himself short before he did anything drastic, rinsing off the rest of the soap from her hair and turning off the water. There was a towel hanging and he took it, handing it to Hermione who wrapped it around her head. She turned toward him, smiling her thanks. Her cheeks were rosier than usual, her eyes brighter than he remembered them. There was a droplet of water running down the angle of her jaw and before he could stop himself he'd reached out and trapped it under his thumb, splaying his hand over the side of her face. 

He wanted to kiss her, he realized, as his eyes fell on her lips. He might have done it too if Harry hadn't come to check on them and interrupted them. Ron never thought he could feel relief and disappointment at the same time, but he felt it then as he slapped a smile on his face and stepped guiltily away from Hermione, avoiding looking directly at her lest he lose all sense again.

Even when they made their way back up to the common room that night after Potions, Ron would have to remind himself over and over again that it was just the illness talking. He couldn't have _really_ wanted to kiss Hermione, could he? Maybe it was just curiosity left over from the accidental kiss they had shared the night before. After all, this made absolutely _no_ sense…she was his friend, his best friend, and nothing more…right?


	3. Not Made of Sugar

A/N This chapter has been written for over a week but I'm afraid it's also been packed away in boxes until today which is why there was such a delay in posting it. Thanks to everyone who stuck to the story and is reading this right now and thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far; you guys all rule and make my day.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, etc. are the intellectual property of JKR; no infringement is intended.

Chapter 3: Not Made of Sugar

Ron had been acting bizarrely all week. Hermione herself had been a little nervous at first, especially after Wednesday's incident in the Great Hall. She had kissed him; she hadn't meant to, had been caught up in the joy and knowledge that she had the two best friends in the world and had in fact been aiming for his cheek. Despite her limited experience (her non-existent experience) she knew the feel of lips when she experienced it. Lips and cheeks, they really didn't compare in the feeling department; for one, Harry's cheek had felt rugged and slightly prickly against the softer skin of her chin and lips. She knew from experience that Ron's cheek would feel much the same—the slightly rougher texture of a man's skin and the prickly feeling of a beard growing back in despite having been shaved that morning. She hadn't kissed Ron very often—a peck on his birthday or when he did something especially sweet—and the same went for Harry. 

When you were as close as they all were, there was a degree of comfort that was only natural to attain and occasional kisses in times of distress or happiness were not abnormal. His lips, though…had she not that very week been observing them? Had she not longed to know how they would feel? Soft yet firm, moist, warm, inviting and more addictive than even the most interesting of books or sweetest of desserts. She had only broken away from the shock of realizing that she was indeed kissing him…really kissing him. The withdrawal that she had felt when she'd pulled away, the tingling that had remained despite the lack of contact had been overwhelming. No wonder Ron had been acting so weird. He was probably mortified even if he hadn't mentioned anything. Here this was the single most exciting moment of Hermione's life and she couldn't even talk about it. The worst, though, the worst was that now she could think of nothing but of how it would feel to recreate the moment.

When Ron had washed her hair, his hands gently moving over her scalp, over the back of her exposed neck, his leg pressed up against her side…she had never felt more aware of him than at that moment and afterwards, when he had innocently wiped away the stray drop of water running down her jaw she'd felt more drawn to him than ever before. She'd wanted to kiss him, had wanted him to kiss her, and was eternally grateful when Harry had come in before she'd lost all control and did something that potentially could have ruined her friendship with Ron forever. She really was hopeless, wasn't she? How was it that she hadn't seen this coming? How was it that she had fallen so hard for her best friend?

"Hey, Herm, wanna grab some lunch?" Well speak of the devil. Though Ron had been acting a little off-color lately, always muttering to himself and turning red for no apparent reason, Hermione thought he finally seemed back to his own self that morning.

"Ron, my name is _Hermione_, not…oh, never mind."

"I know, I know, but I'm starting to realize just how bloody long your name is to say." She shot him a dirty look. "Not that it's not an absolutely lovely name, of course, just a mouthful that's all…kind of like you can be a handful," then as if realizing that he hadn't improved the situation, "but in a good way…like a handful of sweets or something." It was probably the closest thing to a compliment he'd ever given her.

"Are you done trying to dig yourself out of that bottomless pit yet?" she chuckled; she gave him a hard time but she always meant well.

"You know, once upon a time you would have been pretty upset at the fact that I'd just sworn," Ron grinned at her, making her stomach flip. She stood from the sofa where she'd been reading, deciding that it would be much simpler to speak to him if she didn't have to look directly into his eyes.

"Just because I haven't yelled at you yet does not mean that I'm not upset by it, Ron. It just means that I've come to the realization that no matter what I say you're just not going to listen."

"That's not true. I listen!" he protested as he held the portrait open for her. Of course, because it opened outwards it also meant that his arm was around her…sort of. Her heart didn't seem to know the difference, however, as it was beating madly within her chest.

"Ha! That's the funniest thing I've heard all week! It's a good thing it's Saturday or I might have had to miss class from the shock of it all."

"Ha, ha, Hermione; you know I listen. After all, who was it that sat through your theory on the biographical differences between men and women and why it is that men always go for the shiny object?"

"That's biological differences and you only listened because you disagreed and proceeded to tell me how it's women who are superficial and how even if non-shiny women _were_ to get noticed that they would never realize it for fault of believing that they either a) aren't worthy of being noticed or b) don't consider the bloke noticing them as being good enough for them."

"And I still stand by my convictions, but that's besides the point. The point _is_ that whereas everyone in the common room—including your other best friend Harry Potter—tuned you out after two minutes of ranting, I heard you out to the end _and_ made constructive comments."

Hermione snorted her response. "Speaking of my other best friend, is Harry meeting us in the Great Hall?"

"No," Ron replied, "he was still sleeping when I left and I didn't want to wake him. I left a note on his pillow to let him know where we'll be."

They entered the Great Hall and Ron again held the door open for her.

"Has he been having nightmares again?" Hermione asked, immediately concerned for Harry's well being.

"I don't think so, no," Ron shook his head, "but it seems to me that he goes to bed later and later every night. He doesn't want to take a sleeping draught either, though I don't really blame him for that."

"Maybe we should talk to him," Hermione suggested but Ron shook his head.

"You know Harry; he's less likely to talk about his problems if he's forced to. He'll come to us when he's ready."

"I know, but I feel as though I should be doing something."

"You are, Hermione," Ron said, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing lightly, "you're doing something just by being there," he said and smiled briefly before turning to get his food.

~*~

Had anyone not had a clue about his and Hermione's friendship, Ron always figured that they'd have to do would be to watch them eating together to figure it out. It was even more amusing when Harry was with them, three people eating off every plate but his or her own. Hermione, for example, had taken some salad but was busily scooping up a forkful of rice from his plate while he stabbed his fork at one of the cherry tomatoes on hers and popped it into his mouth, feeling it explode when he bit down on it.

"Mm," he said as she scooped the red onions off her plate and put them on his, "but you like onions," he said.

"I know. I just don't feel like brushing my teeth twenty times after lunch to get rid of the bad breath," she explained.

"Not planning on kissing anyone are you?" he teased, but he hadn't thought before speaking and his words brought to mind images of that night in the Great Hall. He could feel himself turning red and could feel the heat creeping up his neck. It wasn't as though he and Hermione had sat down together and discussed this issue. There was nothing to discuss. When one accidentally brushed up against someone else was it cause enough to sit down and overanalyze the moment to death? Of course not. It _hadn't_ been intentional, Ron reminded himself for the thousandth time. It was a moment that had come and gone and it was best that he just forget about it and move on.

"There you are, Harry!" Hermione spoke beside him, neglecting to answer his question about kissing someone, for which he was both thankful and curious.

"Hi guys," Harry greeted them, sitting next to Ron and picking up a chicken wing from Ron's plate, biting into it a moment later.

"You know, Harry, there's a full tray of those wings right over there," Ron grinned as he stole another of Hermione's cherry tomatoes from her plate.

"I know," Harry answered, grinning though his mouth was full, "but that one looked better," he explained as Hermione reached over him for another scoop of rice.

"What are we doing this afternoon? I don't much feel like studying," Hermione asked, and Harry and Ron both leaned to look at her.

"You feeling all right, Hermione?" Ron asked, furrowing his brow.

"Great, why?"

"It's not really like you not to want to study," Harry said, voicing Ron's thoughts.

"Oh, honestly you two. Contrary to popular belief I don't study _all_ the time and I so happen to feel like taking a bit of a break this afternoon. Besides," she added, almost as an afterthought, "I stayed up late last night finishing our Charms assignment, so I don't have anything else to do right now in the way of school…well except for studying for NEWTs but taking one afternoon should be all right."

"Oh, Hermione, Hermione, Hermione," Ron chided, "what are we going to do with you?"

~*~

As it turned out they decided to take her for a walk around the Hogwarts grounds. They walked away from the Quidditch pitch and out to the back of the castle towards the cliffs overhanging the river from which they could get an unobstructed view for several miles below and onto Hogsmeade. Ron and Harry had walked almost to the cliffs' very edge and it was making Hermione's legs feel like wobbly gelatin. Her stomach did somersaults when she watched Ron lean over slightly so he could peer down a drop that was at least fifty meters down.

"Aren't you coming?" Ron turned around when he noticed that she was several feet behind them. Hermione shook her head.

"No, I think I'll just stay here, thanks," she replied. She felt like a complete sod the way she was shaking inside just because of a little height, but she didn't honestly care. Ron was afraid of spiders and Harry had to deal with the fear of a Dark Lord being out for his life; she was allowed her phobia and a fear of heights was it…though it was actually the falling part that made her nervous.

"Oh, come on, Hermione. It's not _that high_" Ron said, peering over the edge again and causing cold fear to run up her spine, making her shiver so that she had to turn her back on them. She wasn't going to look.

"Ron, you know she doesn't like high places," Harry intervened, walking back to where she stood. Hermione felt his hand on her shoulder and turned to him, giving him a sheepish kind of grin.

"I know. I was just teasing," Ron explained, walking towards them and catching her in a kind of half headlock to ruffle her hair. Hermione suspected he'd learned that move from his brothers.

"Next time I'll tease you with a nice hairy spider and we'll see how much you like that," Harry said, discreetly winking at Hermione to show her that he was jesting. She had to bite down on the insider of her cheek not to smile or laugh…not that Ron would have noticed as she was still trapped under his armpit. Good thing he'd decided to wear deodorant that morning. It smelled good. She looked up at his face and despite her efforts felt the corner of her lips twitch when Ron's eyes bulged to the size of Knuts.

"Relax, Ron," Harry laughed and Ron let out a sigh of relief.

"Don't even joke about that, Harry," Ron said, seeming a little out of sorts, no doubt from the mere thought of the possible eight-legged creature hidden between the sheets of his bed.

"You guys are just cruel, you know that?" Hermione laughed at them as Ron released her and he and Harry began walking towards some nearby boulders where they would be able to sit comfortably. Both boys stopped to look at her.

"What, and you're not?" Harry asked, a rare sort of smile playing over his face.

"I am absolutely not!" Hermione denied, slightly though not seriously appalled at the suggestion.

"Oh yes you are," Ron jumped in as they all sat. "All that homework you force us to do ahead of time and all that studying you tell us to do more of…that's pretty cruel and unusual punishment, you know." Hermione looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"Punishment for what, exactly?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Ron sniffed. "All we do is be nice to you and carry your books and be the very best of friends that we possibly can be," at this point he pressed a hand to his chest and looked up as if blinking back tears, swallowing a non-existent lump. "Why, Hermione? Why?" he asked, "choked" up.

"Oh, bugger off," Hermione howled in laughter, pushing him lightly to the side, making him sway to catch his balance. After all the odd behaviour she'd suffered from him that week, she thought that things finally seemed like old times again.

~*~

Ron and Hermione were alone when they began their walk back to the castle, taking the long, more scenic route. Harry had excused himself earlier as he'd promised Neville a game of Snap. Hermione suspected that he was also hoping to run into Ginny Weasley in the Common Room. He'd confessed to her, the year before, that he'd developed feelings for Ron's sister. Nothing had transpired between the two as of yet but Hermione suspected it was only a matter of time before it did.

"What are you thinking about?" Ron asked beside her.

"Hmm? Oh, I was just thinking about Harry and Ginny," she replied and Ron grinned.

"Do you think he'll ever work up the nerve to tell me he fancies her?" Ron had long ago realized the slightly "more than just friends" kind of looks Harry and his sister shared and though Hermione had been sworn to secrecy when Harry had confessed other, she hadn't technically broken her confidence with him when Ron had approached her…merely reinforced what the redhead had already known.

"Maybe you should just tell him that you know and make it easier on him," she suggested.

"Where would be the fun in that?" Ron grinned down at her and she could only shake her head as they continued walking. They hadn't even made it halfway back to the castle when they heard thunder rumble overhead and felt the change in the atmosphere as the skies split open, pouring torrents. Hermione's first instinct was to run for shelter but the path consisted mostly of rocks. Within seconds both she and Ron were soaked through and she could only stand still, head turned upwards in resignation.

"This is just great," she muttered miserably as she looked up at Ron who was grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, you cannot possibly find this _amusing_ can you?" His hair was plastered to his forehead in dark auburn clumps and water ran down his jaw and neck in rivulets. His eyes seemed bluer than usual, framed by wet eyelashes and he looked…_happy_. Her heart skipped a beat.

"You're not the only one who likes rain, you know," he smiled down at her, running his hand backwards through his hair to get it out of his face and making it stand on end in so doing. Hermione didn't think she'd ever seen him looking sexier, especially with the water soaking through his gray cotton T-shirt, making it cling to his skin and showing off the curve of his chest and bulge of his muscles. She had to remind herself that she shouldn't be feeling these feelings and forcibly forced her gaze away from his body and up to his face where his eyes seem to penetrate to her very core. _Dammit_.

"I prefer my rain from the comfort of the castle, thank you very much," she said, her voice sounding oddly low and husky to her ears. She tried clearing her throat.

"Now, now, Hermione. You're not made of sugar; you're not going to melt out here," Ron was still grinning and reached down to wipe away a droplet from her chin…one of probably a hundred that were residing on her face. The move sent shockwaves down her spine, however, no matter how innocently he'd meant it. It was Herbology all over again, and Hermione had to find something, say something, that would turn her thoughts away from the incredibly attractive, incredibly wet man standing in front of her and make her see him as her best friend again. She did the first thing that came to mind; she jumped with both feet in a puddle that had quickly been accumulating next to her, sending muddy water all over Ron. Once upon a time she'd been able to ease the tension by starting arguments with him, but now that they'd partially grown out of those arguments, making fun worked just as well.

Ron quickly recovered from his initial shock, though Hermione was too busy laughing at him to notice, the side of his face covered in muddy streaks as his mouth hung open in surprise. She hadn't come out unscathed herself, but muddy shoes and pants were about the extent of the damage she'd suffered from her jump. "You are so going to pay for that," Ron wiped his face with his hand, and a large smile played over his face. Hermione felt like a child again as she began giggling in excited fear and ran in the other direction. She screamed in delight when she heard Ron's long strides quickly catching up to her and his arms sneak around her waist as he grabbed her for retaliation.

~*~

The surprise on everyone's face had been apparent when she and Ron had walked into the castle, covered from head to toe in mud, soaked through, and shivering slightly. She could feel the grin playing over her face and could see it mirrored on Ron's. She'd had the best time of her life out there in the rain, and okay; Ron was still sexy as hell, even when he was dirty and muddy and soaked, but for a moment she'd been able to push that to the back of her mind and just have fun with him; fun that she hadn't had in years and planned to repeat the very next time it rained. It had been a wonderful afternoon.

Stepping out of the shower and performing a drying spell on her hair, she put on some dry, warm clothes, and slipped on a pair of woolen socks that Ron's mother had knitted for him and that he'd outgrown before he'd had them for two weeks. She'd had them since their fifth year and loved them. Ron didn't know she'd stolen them from him.

She left the girls' dormitory and headed for the boys'. The plan had been to meet Ron downstairs in the common room and find Harry to have dinner, but she still had fifteen minutes before they'd decided to regroup so she decided just to meet him in his room and make things quicker. The door was slightly ajar and she knocked.

"You can come in, Harry," she heard Ron say from the other side, and she smiled, pushing the door open, the words "Since when is my name Harry?" on the tip of her tongue, though they caught in her throat. 

Her heart stopped beating at what she saw and Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever breathe again.


	4. Allergies and Experiments

A/N To those who had so little faith as to my updating habits, ha ha :P See? I guess I'm not that bad after all! And I guess I had to make up for the evilness of last chapter's cliffhanger. Here's what you've all been waiting for, and might I add that there's even more than just a semi-naked Ron? Oh yes…the fluffy continues!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, etc. are the intellectual property of JKR; no infringement is intended.

**__**

Last Chapter…

She left the girls' dormitory and headed for the boys'. The plan had been to meet Ron downstairs in the Common Room and find Harry to have dinner, but she still had fifteen minutes before they'd decided to regroup so she decided just to meet him in his room and make things quicker. The door was slightly ajar and she knocked.

"Come in, Harry," she heard Ron say from the other side, and she smiled, pushing the door open, the words "Since when is my name Harry?" on the tip of her tongue, though they caught in her throat. 

Her heart stopped beating at what she saw and Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever breathe again.

Chapter 4: Allergies and Experiments

Skin; expanses of creamy white skin with just a hint of freckles. Hermione's breath caught in her throat as her eyes fell on a very nearly naked Ron. His hair was still wet, standing on end after having had a tumble with a towel and being roughly fingered back in place. It was darker than usual when it was wet, she remarked again, though it was only a haphazard thought. No, the bulk of Hermione's attention was focused on that little square of baby blue cotton that made up his boxer shorts—the only thing he happened to be wearing.

His back was to her which meant that he didn't know she was there—that she wasn't in fact Harry—and which meant that she could take him in, every curve of his shape, the bulging of his shoulder muscles as he looked through his trunk for some dry clothes.

"Bloody hell," Hermione muttered under her breath. This was all she needed. Was it enough that she had taken a fancy to her best friend? _Of course not_, she'd had to go and walk in on him half-naked and reinforce everything she'd feared. She didn't just fancy Ron; this was more than just a little schoolgirl crush. She _wanted_ him…thought he was the sexiest man she had ever laid eyes on. Ah, hell; the guy was just H-O-T and what annoyed her perhaps the most was that she'd always thought herself apart from all those girls who jumped into physical relationships without focus on the consequences. Truth was, if she focused just right, she could almost pretend that those boxers weren't there at all, could almost imagine the curve of his bare—

"Hermione!?! What are you!? How long have you been?? Do you mind!?"

Ron's shocked voice and the sight of him diving for shelter behind the bed brought Hermione back to reality. She could act in one of two ways; she could be embarrassed at walking him on him, blush and stutter and turn her back as he changed or she could act as if what she'd seen was no big deal. She felt embarrassed, somewhat, but her words sounded calm and collected when she uttered them. "Sorry, Ron; didn't realize you were still changing," she said, meeting eyes that were peeking at her from behind the mattress.

"You should have identified yourself; this is a _naked_ place," he said, reaching one bare, creamy-skinned arm over the bed to grab a pair of jeans that had been thrown there either from his search through his trunk earlier or from a previous occasion. Hermione withheld a chuckle.

"Gee, Ron; I didn't know the fifth year boys were _that_ close," she said, somewhat out of character for her. She didn't make crude jokes, didn't allude to anything that wasn't absolutely proper and civilized. She was the one who rolled her eyes at the boys when they made their boy comments and who scolded them when those comments got a bit out of line. What was wrong with her?

"That's _not_ what I meant!" Ron defended adamantly as he pulled on the slacks from behind the bed, standing only after they'd been pulled over his hips and turning his back to her to fasten them. He was still bare from the waste up and the top of his boxers peeked from under the waistline of his jeans, accentuating the dip of his back, a dip that made its way up and deepened between his shoulder blades. Hermione could imagine what it would feel like to rest her cheek in that hollow, how her arms would fit perfectly around his waist. Was it normal to be thinking all these things? She knew she fancied the bloke, but was she supposed to be having visions when she was around him too? He turned again to face her, bending to shuffle through the contents of his trunk once more. She noticed a sparse covering of ginger hair leading from below his navel and retreating beneath his boxers and felt shivers creeping up her back.

"Sorry," she replied as Ron seemed to be waiting for a response. "Hey, Ron," she began, unsure of what exactly she was asking, but knowing she had to distract herself from the view of his bare chest "how are you feeling?" she said finally. Ron raised his eyebrows in question.

"Fine," he said, seeming unsure of what she meant.

"I mean, are you still feeling ill? You said you'd gone to see Madam Pomfrey," she led on so that he might get a clear idea of just where she was going with all this even if she didn't necessarily have the slightest clue.

"Oh," he answered, finally understanding. "Er, yeah, I'm all right," he said, avoiding her eyes. Instead he grabbed a Weasley jumper from his trunk and pulled it on. The sleeves were too short, and Hermione was quickly developing the urge to make it her own if she had the chance, much like the socks she'd taken from him; _great, so now I'm becoming a kleptomaniac of all things Ron_. Maybe she would see Madam Pomfrey as well. 

~*~

He was far from being all right, he decided as they made their way down to the Great Hall for dinner. Ginny was walking with them and Ron noticed how Harry walked next to her while Hermione and he walked slightly ahead of them. Hermione's question in the dormitory had caught him off guard…her walking in on him undressed had caught him off guard, but mostly her acting as though it had been no big deal had riled him. Had she seen many blokes in their shorts? Was she an expert in that field? Was that why she'd been so standoffish in regards to the fact that he was practically naked in front of her? Ron knew it wasn't any of his business, and mostly he knew that if Hermione had gone traipsing around with some bloke she would have told him, or at the very least Harry; but the possibility, just the mere possibility that seeing half-naked blokes was a regular occurrence for Hermione was putting knots in his stomach the size of the Titanic. 

And then she'd asked him if he was all right; she couldn't have picked a better time for it either, not when the fluttering was back full force, his heart was beating a gazillion miles an hour and it felt as though he'd never be able to catch his breath again. Oh, he wasn't all right at all. If anything, he was worst off than before because he'd finally realized something; he'd found his common denominator and it spelled Hermione. Now that he thought about it, he only ever felt ill when Hermione was around and hadn't Madam Pomfrey told him that there would be one thing in common with every time he experienced his symptoms? Hadn't she told him that once he found out what that commonality was that he would be closer to determining what was wrong with him?

He was allergic to Hermione Granger. _Obviously,_ that was what was wrong with him. Even now, walking down to dinner, he could feel the beating of his heart in his chest and his brain was working non-stop. Her hair glimmered almost a pale caramel color in the candle light; her pink shirt really brought out the glow of her cheeks; her skin looked like spun silk; he wondered if it would feel like it, too. _Stop it_! He ordered himself, but it was no use; he'd already moved on to the shimmy of her hips when she walked and his brain wasn't the only thing that was working now.

He muttered a curse under his breath, but Hermione had obviously heard him. She turned to him in surprise, eyes wide. He thought they were the most spectacular color of brown he'd ever seen. Greenish in the center, darker around the rims, and flecked with gold throughout. He could get lost in those eyes, he thought…the allergies were worst than ever.

"Sorry," he muttered, running a hand over his face and through his hair. God, he was tired. Tired and confused and plain weary. What was wrong with him? He wasn't sure he wanted to know anymore. Allergy or no allergy he wasn't willing to stop being friends with Hermione, but just being in the same room with her lately was driving him crazy.

"Ron, you feeling okay?" Harry asked from behind him. _Great_, Ron thought, _pick this time to take your eyes off my little sister_. He wasn't really angry with Harry, he knew, but he just didn't need any more attention drawn to him; not when he himself didn't know what the hell was going on.

"Fine," he answered a bit more gruffly than he intended, then stopped abruptly, turning away from the Great Hall and heading instead towards the Astronomy Tower. "I need to be alone," he announced, walking away from the three surprised people at his back. He heard Hermione behind him.

"I'll go see what's wrong." And Harry's voice.

"Was it something I said?" 

Ginny's response. "Ron's just being a prat…as usual."

~*~

Maybe he was being a prat, Ron didn't know. What he did know, though, was that if he didn't figure things out soon he might end up doing something that would cost him his friendship with Hermione. He had to think this logically; that was what Hermione would do, wasn't it? Think through everything as it had happened, every detail of what had happened, and from that figure out why it had happened? But that was easier said than done. When had this begun? When had he started feeling so bizarre every time she came near? He supposed it couldn't have been that long considering he'd only recently discovered his reaction to her, but when he thought back to previous years he realized that he had in fact felt this way before. Back in fourth year when he'd seen her at the Yule Ball looking all dressed up and fancy, his heart had beat in his chest then. In third year when they'd made up from their fight over Crookshanks eating Scabbers and she had thrown herself in his arms from relief, he remembered his stomach fluttering then. How could he have never noticed it? How could he have been so dense as not to know that he was allergic to his own best friend?

"Ron, what's the matter?" she asked, coming up behind him. The bane of his existence…or of his health, anyway. The bane of his physical and mental health. Even now he could feel himself going crazy at her proximity.

He ran his hand gruffly over his face again. "Dammit, Hermione," he cursed. He wasn't really cursing her, though his words sounded as though he was blaming her somehow. No, he was cursing himself. Cursing himself for not having spotted this before, and cursing himself for having her as a weakness. He could deal with being allergic to anyone, anyone but her. He couldn't live without her. She was the right side of his brain, his conscience, and she knew him better than he knew himself. And yet here he was finding himself not being able to get near her without feeling as though he were flying and falling all at once.

"Did I do something? Was it something I said?" He could hear tears in his voice and immediately felt sorry for his rude behaviour. He turned towards her and sighed, his back against the tower's outer wall, the wind blowing roughly through his hair. 

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "Ginny's right, I _am_ a prat."

"You're not a prat, Ron. But if something happened between this afternoon and now, if I said something or did something or, I don't know, but dammit, Ron, would you just tell me what's wrong?" He felt his eyes widen in shock at the sound of her swearing. He even went so far as to flinch. Hermione Granger did not swear; Hermione Granger was the most patient person he knew. If he had angered her to this point, if he had frustrated her to such a level as to cause her to swear, then he had been a worst person than he had originally thought.

Her eyes seemed as though they were swimming in unshed tears, and her chin quivered slightly. Great, now he had made her cry; could he be any more horrible? Not able to look at her and see what he had done to her he turned towards the horizon, the skies already darkened from the rain they'd had that afternoon though the downpour had since ceased. He leaned over the stone railing, looking out towards the distance. He saw Hermione approach the rail from the corner of his eye and come to stand beside him to his left, mirroring his stance, her arms crossed over the damp stone as she looked to the distance for answers that he had yet to find for himself.

She was a few feet to his left, an arm's length he guessed, and though he could feel the fluttering in his stomach, it wasn't as strong as usual. Experimenting, he took a step closer to her and felt the fluttering increase minutely. Again he stepped closer, his arm now loosely brushing against her own, and the fluttering increased, his heart joining the soundless symphony.

"I'm sorry," he said, and she turned to look at him, her eyes locking onto his; his breath hitched. What if he increased the contact between them? He lifted a thumb to her cheek to wipe away a stray tear. His head felt lighter than usual.

"I just want to know what's wrong, Ron. Tell me how I can fix whatever I did." There was only one way he would know to what extent she could affect him; just _how_ allergic he really was to her.

"I think we should kiss," he said. To him it was the next logical step; how much closer could two people be than when they were kissing? Apparently Hermione was having other ideas. Her eyes had grown wide and her mouth was opening and closing as though to form words though no words would come out. She'd taken a step back in her shock and the fluttering in his chest dimmed down slightly, though the beating in his heart seemed to get worst…maybe he was nervous. But of what?

"Wh-what?" she finally managed. Obviously she didn't want to kiss him. Probably felt she would be betraying underwear boy…whatever other bloke it was that she was so used to seeing half naked.

"I mean as an experiment," Ron explained, "just to see what it would be like…to see if we feel anything." He wasn't doing a very good job of explaining things. He only wanted to see if his hypothesis held; the closer he got to her, the worst his symptoms got. Lately, it seemed as though those symptoms had magnified even though the distance between them hadn't necessarily been reduced which meant that eventually he wouldn't be able to be around her at all without experiencing the allergy. Still, there was only one way to find out.

"Why?" she looked at him, incredulous as to what he was proposing. He felt almost hurt—or was it disappointed—that she so obviously was repulsed at the idea of locking lips with him.

"I think…I think I'm allergic to you," he said, and Hermione's mouth opened as she prepared to question him. He held up a hand to silence her. "I'll explain everything, but can we just—" this was a more delicate subject than he'd originally thought, "can we just…kiss…and see what happens?"

"I guess, but Ron why are you—" but he cut her off before she could say anything else. He just had to find out what this all meant. Part of him wished that he wouldn't feel anything, that this would just turn out to be a fluke, that Hermione really wasn't the common denominator and that his symptoms really were being caused by something entirely different…like a weird reaction to the soap he was using or something. 

At first he'd thought he'd succeeded in disproving the Hermione theory. As his lips made contact with hers, all he felt initially was their warmth and dewy sort of moisture. She tasted like peppermints, he thought, which was interesting considering Hermione rarely ate sweets. Other than that, however, he really couldn't say he felt anything, but then again Hermione hadn't recovered from her initial shock yet. The second she began to kiss him back, his whole body felt as though it had been engulfed in flames.

He was suddenly aware of everything; there were fireworks in his head, lights flashing behind his eyelids, and the whole world seemed to be spinning out of control while time seemed to have ceased. He felt Hermione's hands rising to become tangled in his hair and felt his own arms wind around her waist, pulling her closer. The blood was rushing in his ears, his heart felt as though it would jump out of his chest and he was certain Hermione could feel it beating against her own. There was no more fluttering in his chest; it had become so severe that it had negativized itself, increased to such a high level that it had cycled all the way back to nonexistence. It was unbelievable and frightening and exhilarating at the same time, but most of all it was disheartening as Ron realized that this time, the one time he'd hoped to be wrong, he'd in fact hit the nail on the head.

The kiss broke and Ron felt as though he'd never be able to catch his breath again; he licked his lips just to be certain that what had just transcended had been more than just a figment of his imagination and pressed them together when he felt them tingling oddly. A reaction that he'd had yet to experience…until now. He almost couldn't look Hermione in the eye when she took a step away from him.

"Anything?" she asked almost scientifically, as though waiting to record her observations and draw her conclusions. It took everything he had inside himself to lie.

"Nothing." _Yeah right_. "You?" He asked it almost hopefully. If she had felt something too then at least it wasn't him alone; at least there could be some other cause for what he had just felt, something other than the fact that soon he would only be able to consort with Hermione if he were isolated in a glass chamber while she spoke to him from the other side.

"Nothing," she replied quietly and his heart sank. His worst fears had been realized, but there was also something else brewing deep in his gut. Her answer seemed to tear through him and shatter any hope he may have possessed, but it was more than just confirming his self-diagnosis. He didn't know why, but he'd almost hoped that Hermione _would_ have felt something…and not just because he wanted to be proven wrong.

"Well that's good, then," she answered, a tad too cheerfully for his spirits. He managed a smile as he said something related to grabbing dinner and his spirits sunk to their lowest as he led her out of the tower and towards the Great Hall, the realization that the worst was yet to come hanging heavy on his mind—and heart.


	5. Fevers and Realisations

Disclaimer Harry Potter, etc. are the intellectual property of JKR; no infringement is intended.

A/N: I am so sorry about the very long delay. I would like to thank my friend Stephanie (if she is reading) who emailed me today asking me when she was going to see the next chapter already. What can I say? Unlike Hermione, I _am_ a lazy arse. Feel free to pelt me with sharp objects now.

Chapter 5: Fevers and Realisations

Hermione had never told a bigger lie in her life. _Nothing_. Ha! If what she'd felt was nothing then Harry was in league with Voldemort. Honestly she didn't know what had come over her to drive her to tell such a blatant untruth…though she suspected it had something to do with Ron's answer. _He_ had felt nothing, and aside from breaking her heart, shattering her hopes, it had also convinced her that she simply could not admit the effects of the kiss. Not when Ron had been so immune, so unaffected by it.

She heard a gentle tap on her door and Harry poked his head in. How he'd managed to get across the collapsing staircase she had no idea, but it was not the first time he or Ron had done so. She hoped he wouldn't notice her red-rimmed eyes. It had taken all the control she could muster to wait until dinner had passed to come up to her room and burst into tears.

"Fancy a game of Snap?" he asked her and she racked her brain for possible excuses to give him. He must have noticed and smiled knowingly at her. "If it's Ron you're trying to avoid, he's already gone to bed," he said nudging his head toward the common room. Come on, you can tell me all about it downstairs. It's practically empty save Neville who's fallen asleep."

Hermione sighed in resignation and nodded silently, following Harry out the door. On their way down they crossed Lavender and Parvati who'd been on their way up. The two girls whispered between themselves and giggled as they continued on their way.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked, half-turning towards her. She was purposefully lagging a little behind, postponing the inevitable as it were. At Harry's question she rolled her eyes.

"They've taken a fancy to you, Harry. They say you're a 'hunk'."

"Merlin help me!" was Harry's groaning response and Hermione couldn't help but laugh a little. "Does that mean you're feeling better?" he asked as he led the way to their usual corner. Hermione was surprised when instead of sitting in the armchair he took a seat instead on the sofa, next to her.

"You'll be able to see my cards, sitting there," Hermione pointed out, always a mind for practicality. Harry looked at her sheepishly.

"I didn't bother bringing my deck," he revealed. "I actually wanted to talk to you," he said.

"About what?" Hermione asked, hopeful that if she acted as though she didn't know what Harry was alluding to he would drop the subject. Alas, Harry was a smart bloke and saw right through her.

"About Ron; specifically, about you and Ron. But you knew that already," he told her.

Just thinking about all that had happened brought tears to Hermione's eyes. She looked up at the ceiling, trying to blink them back. She felt Harry's arm fall around her shoulders and felt herself being pulled into his chest. The first thought that came into her head was that it was Ron who usually did this, Ron who was usually the one to comfort her and that knowledge made her even sadder. How could it be that the only one capable of taking away the hurt was the one who had put it there in the first place?

When she sobbed, the sound muffled by Harry's chest, she felt his arms tighten around her and heard his voice, deep and rumbling in her ear.

"What has he done this time? I could tell something was wrong when you came back from the tower. You were entirely too cheerful and he was entirely too--normal." Hermione laughed through her tears. That description of Ron was spot on. One could always tell something was wrong with him when he pretended nothing was wrong with him at all. "So?" Harry pressed on, holding her at arm's length now, looking soothingly into her face. "What has our Ronald done this time?" he asked again and Hermione laughed again.

"He kissed me," she answered. It sounded so preposterous, even as she said it. Even Harry looked taken aback at her answer, as though it was beyond anything he'd expected.

But these aren't happy tears," he said, wiping one of them away with the back of his index finger.

"He kissed me and then told me he didn't feel anything." Harry looked confused and Hermione sighed, explaining everything to him.

"So you told him you didn't feel anything either," Harry repeated as she concluded her account, "because, according to you, there was nothing to feel?"

"That's right."

"You're a terrible liar, Hermione. You felt something or you wouldn't be so upset that he didn't." Hermione sighed again, resigned to say outloud what she'd realised two years ago.

"I fancy him, Harry. I more than fancy him. I'm absolutely crazy about him," she revealed, feeling a weight lift off her heart. It felt good to let it out in the open.

"I know," Harry said after a long silence and Hermione was shocked.

"How…how did you know? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Where would have been the fun in that?" Harry chuckled. "Besides, you weren't ready for me to know or you would have said something yourself." Hermione shook her head, trying to get a handle on her thoughts.

"How long?"

"How long have I known? Since you fought with him over Scabbers."

"But that was in third year!" Hermione exclaimed. "I didn't even realise it myself until fifth year," she whispered, gesticulating wildly with her hands.

"Sometimes it's easier to see when you're outside looking in then it is where you're stuck in the action." His words held some value, she conceded, but that still didn't make things any easier for her.

"Life sucks," Hermione declared, to which Harry burst out laughing.

"Interesting choice of words," Harry replied and it struck a chord in Hermione's brain…something about Ron's particular word choice. _I think I'm allergic to you_. Wasn't that what he had said?

"What are you thinking?" Harry asked and Hermione told him. Harry frowned as he thought it over but Hermione's mind was running a hundred miles an hour. For one fleeting moment she almost believed that those words meant that maybe Ron shared her feelings, just maybe…but just as quickly as the hope came did she push it back again. She couldn't go there anymore.

~*~

Ron was not asleep when Harry walked into the boys' dormitory. Far from it, in fact. He felt weary and exhausted and though he'd tried to sleep, all that resulted when he closed his eyes was his having visions of the incident in the tower. He'd tried not to think about it, had tried to deny it had even happened but a frightening truth kept rearing its head: _he'd liked it_.

"Harry?" he said in a sort of stage whisper. Harry turned his head sharply in Ron's direction, clutching his chest.

"I thought you were sleeping!" Harry whispered in turn, sitting on the edge of his bed. Ron also rose to a sitting position, running a gruff hand through his hair and lowering it to grip the edge of the bed.

"I'm a light sleeper," he answered bitterly, remembering that he had once said those same words to Hermione--the girl who couldn't muster the slightest hint of a feeling when he kissed her. He still didn't know why that bothered him so much. He remembered another conversation he'd had with Hermione. "I know you fancy Ginny," he said, out of the blue. He hadn't really set out to say it but he was glad he had.

"Oh," came Harry's reply; it was hushed, as though all the air had left his lungs when he'd said that word. Then, "is that why you left before dinner? Because Ron I was going--"

"Going to tell me eventually. I know. I'm not mad at you." He answered.

"You're not?" Harry sounded surprised and Ron chuckled a bit. 

"No, I'm glad it's you and not some prissy arse like Malfoy," Ron answered. Harry laughed at that.

They sat in silence for an indeterminable moment until Ron spoke again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Harry answered.

"How does she make you feel? Ginny, I mean." When Harry spluttered, his face growing red in the candlelight Ron spoke again. "Spare me the details, harry. I mean in general."

"Oh," Harry answered and seemed to consider the question. "Nervous, I suppose, but now. She doesn't made me nervous but I feel like I'm nervous when I'm around her, does that make any sense?"

"Not really," Ron declared, mulling Harry's answer over in his mind.

"Well," Harry began again, "it's as though I know exactly when she's walked into the same room. It's like--butterflies. Yeah, like butterflies in my stomach and my palms get all sweaty and I feel as though someone's socked me in the chest only it doesn't exactly feel _bad_, just different." Harry explained. Ron sighed, a heavy feeling weighing down his heart all of a sudden.

"That's what I thought," he said before shutting his bed curtain and leaving himself in the dark to think things through.

~*~

Hermione wasn't sure whether to be mortified or whether to act as though the events of last night were completely normal. Most of all, though, she was dreading having to face Harry. Funny, wasn't it? Sure, she was nervous about seeing Ron and acting normally after what had happened but it was the part where she'd made a blubbering fool of herself that bothered her the most.

She wasn't much of a crier…okay, well, maybe that wasn't completely true. She wasn't one to keep her emotions bottled up, but rarely did she let those emotions pouring out in front of an audience. Harry had been really great last night, especially considering Ron usually was the one who handled her breakdowns. God, he'd probably seen her crying a hundred times…okay, so maybe she was a crier after all.

"Ugh," Hermione muttered, disgusted at herself for being such a mush ball. It was Sunday, still the weekend and although the boys would be sleeping in they'd also worry if come lunchtime she was still in her room.

__

Might as well face the music Hermione told herself. For a moment, just a moment, she considered doing something different with her hair and putting on some makeup but instead she settled for an elastic band and tied her hair back, skipping the makeup (which she would have had to borrow anyway) altogether.

She was happy and relieved to see the common room still empty save for Neville (who continued to snore softly on a nearby sofa). She was tempted to wake him but decided against it, liking the solitude. Instead she settled down in her usual seat.

It was impossible to tell just how long she'd been siting there--lost in thoughts she hadn't known she was having and probably would never recall--when she heard the portrait hole open.

For a moment she figured it was just Fred and George returning from a prank. The laughing emanating from the doorway certainly supported her theory, as did the red hair of the boy stepping through it, but with sinking spirits Hermione remembered that Fred and George were no longer at Hogwarts, that the red hair belonged to no other than Ron and that it was Harry he was laughing with.

"They think you're a hunk?" he chuckled. "A hunk of _what_?"

"Ron, it's an expression. It means they think I'm the best looking bloke in school."

"Well firstly _why_ would they think that when you've me to contend with, thank you very much, and secondly--" but he'd just spotted her and had stopped abruptly. Hermione watched as harry ran right into Ron.

"Ow! Why'd you stop like that?" Harry rubbed his nose and spotted her in turn. "Hi, Hermione," he said.

"Morning," she was able to muster after what was probably a split second but felt much longer. "How long have you two been awake?" she asked, deciding that normal was the approach to take. It had worked when she'd walked in on Ron nearly naked, hadn't it? There was no reason why it shouldn't work now.

"A lot longer than you have been, apparently, you lazy arse," Ron said after what felt like hours to Hermione. He walked towards her, grinning, before sprawling himself next to her in typical Ron Weasley fashion. Normal it would be, Hermione decided, taking his lead and acting as though nothing had happened. Maybe she'd eventually convince her heart of the same.

~*~

He'd hoped it wasn't true, not because he was against it or because he didn't want it to happen or found it revolting or anything, but merely because it was just too crazy and unbelievable and unexpected to be true. One look at her sitting lost in thought on that sofa had brought it all back--the fluttering, the beating, the sweating, and the realisation he'd come to last night that he fancied his best friend. Not just fancied her--he was in very, very deep like with her. She drove him crazy and he was crazy about her. 

Madam Pomfrey had been right--he'd done just fine falling for her on his own without the aid of any potion. He bet the old bat had known all along what had been wrong with him too. She could have at least have told him he was in love with his best friend!

Thinking about everything that had gone through his mind over the past few weeks almost made him laugh out loud. Allergies…well that was the dumbest think he'd ever come up with. And he ought to know…he had a tendency t come up with some pretty outlandish thoughts; like the notion that there was a possibility Hermione might like him back? Yeah, that was a good one. Of course there couldn't be any truth in that considering she'd been so revolted by the kiss they'd shared.

Well, all right; he had to give himself _some_ credit. She hadn't been revolted as much as she had been...unaffected. He still didn't understand why. Just thinking about that kiss still sent shivers shooting up his spine. There was probably enough energy running through him to light up on of those Muggle eclectic light bulbs.

He felt the smack of a hand upside his head. It wasn't hard or painful and in fact it made him smile--because Hermione had been the one to administer it. He'd decided last night to play it cool and playing it cool meant teasing and joking and being the friend he'd been before realising he was an idiot for not realising sooner that he was crazy about that girl sitting next to him.

"I am not lazy and I certainly am not an arse!" she said and he grinned at her. He stuck his tongue out and quickly retracted it, eliciting a small twitch of Hermione's mouth. She always pretended to be angry with him but she never actually was.

"Of course you aren't, Hermione. You know I wouldn't deign be seen with you if you were. Nor would Harry for that matter, isn't that right Harry?" he addressed Harry who as always was sitting in the oversized chair facing them.

"Hey, you're lucking that I _deign_ being seen with either of you now. I _am_ a hunk, you know," Harry jested, raiding his hands in a "what can I do" kind of gesture. Ron threw a cushion at him, unaware that Hermione had done the same at the same time. They both hit Harry squarely in the head. Hermione laughed and both he and Harry joined in. In the middle of laughing, Hermione began coughing and for the first time Ron noticed that her cheeks were flushed as though with fever.

"Oof, sorry," Hermione apologised after her coughing fit. She looked tired for someone who's just slept over an hour past her usual wake up time.

"Come here," Harry said from across them, leaning out of his chair to press the back of his hand on Hermione's forehead. Ron ignored the pang of jealousy that course through his gut and instead repeated the gesture once Harry had removed his hand.

"You're warm," he declared after a moment, his hand lingering on her face a moment longer than he should have kept it.

"That's because I'm human, Ron. It's called body heat." She replied snappishly. Hermione always got grumpy when she got sick.

"Actually, I think it's called a fever, Hermione," he replied in a tone that she usually found annoying as hell. "Maybe you should see Madam Pomfrey," he suggested but she merely shrugged him off.

"I'm all right, Ron. Nothing a quick nap won't cure," she said even as she yawned. He expected her to up and go to her room but instead curled right up on the couch and before he knew it she was asleep. He couldn't help it; he rose from his place on the sofa and grabbed a blanket that he been draped over a chair in the corner. Delicately he placed it over her, running his hand over the curve of her jaw, brushing away a stray strand of hair, grateful when Harry, who was watching, didn't say anything.


	6. Gilded Cage

A/N: Well, I guess this is better than the last time I updated. Sure, two-ish weeks is kind of a long time, but this is really good for me. You can still feel more than welcome to throw sharp, painful objects at me if you wish, however. From now on, things are going to get a whole lot fluffier between our two favourite people. No Harry in this chapter…sorry to all his fans. We'll make up for it soon J 

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, etc. are the intellectual property of JKR; no infringement is intended.

Chapter 6: Gilded Cage

She felt strangely horrible upon waking up. Her head was fuzzy, as though she'd been drugged or as though she'd spend much too much time sleeping. There was a pressure in her head that made it feel as though it would explode at any moment and her chest felt odd, as though her lungs were being pressed on by two invisible hands, and it was warm in the common room, the air around her so oppressive that she felt she might suffocate if it got any warmer. Damn. She hated being sick but she had to admit to herself that she was.

Being ill, though, didn't explain why her entire lower half felt as though a Hippogriff were sitting on it. 

She opened her eyes, surprised at how dark it was for a Sunday afternoon. She looked out the window and was shocked at seeing the sun making its way down for the night, casting a warm, reddish glow on everything. She'd slept the whole day away! How could Ron and Harry have let her do such a thing?

She attempted to get up but was prevented from doing so by the weight on top of her. Throwing off the blanket that covered her (and wondering who it was that could have put it there) she sat up. Upon further inspection it was apparent just what—or who—was preventing her from getting up. Ron had apparently fallen asleep beside her sometime in the afternoon. His head lay on her lap, his arms entwined around her legs, most of his weight on her. One of his legs was hanging over the arm of the sofa while the other hung over its edge, his foot on the floor. He couldn't possibly be very comfortable. Hermione was about to yell out "Ron!" and demand an explanation but when she inhaled to do so, she started coughing madly, an odd tickle in her chest. It may not have been what she was going for, but Ron nonetheless woke up with a start. Of course, she was too busy trying to catch her breath—she was still coughing and her eyes were now watering—to say anything to him.

"Hermione?" he asked groggily, sitting up and rubbing his sore neck, then he looked at her and his eyes widened.

"Why are you crying!?" he asked her, closing the distance between them and making a move as though to hug her. She held out her hand and pushed him away from her. She was having enough trouble breathing on her own without suffocating by being in such close proximity to someone—even _if_ that someone was Ron, whose proximity she quite liked being close to. She'd finally regained her breath and wiped at the moisture that had run down her cheeks.

"I'm not crying, Ron," she spoke, her voice sounding kind of croaky and breathless all at once.

"God, you sound awful," Ron said and she felt him put his hand on her forehead again. She tried shrugging him off—even when she felt horrible, this kind of contact with him was unnerving—but he gave her such a look that she'd never seen before and that made her sit still. For a split second, Ron had reminded her so much of Mrs. Weasley that the woman herself could have been sitting in front of her.

"You're really burning up, Hermione," Ron, whose hands were now gently around her neck, said.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked referring to the prodding at her throat. Ron smiled sheepishly.

"I've no idea; Mum always does that when we're sick."

"I am not—" Hermione responded automatically but the next place Ron put his hand was over her mouth.

"Oh yes you are, and you're going to see Madam Pomfrey."

~*~

"Why do _I _have to stay? I'm not the one who's sick, here!" Ron was protesting as Hermione watched Madam Pomfrey try to force him into the bed next to hers. In the middle of laughing at him, though, she was caught with another coughing fit and Ron threw a reproachful glare in her direction…as though it was all her fault that they'd gotten ill and were now stuck in the infirmary. Who was it that had wanted to go traipsing in the rain? Who was it that had insisted she come up here and who had accompanied her to make certain she did? Well it certainly wasn't her fault now, was it? Nope, nope, nope.

"Now, Miss Granger, you will kindly take this draught," Madam Pomfrey said, having succeeded in getting Ron settled down and handing her a vial of bright red potion that smelled strongly of cinnamon. It burned the inside of her mouth as she gulped it down; steam began shooting out of her ears as the Pepperup Potion took effect and the pressure inside her head vanished. Her throat also felt slightly better.

"I'm afraid that will do nothing for your cough, Miss Granger. Unfortunately that will have to heal on its own. There are potions that can be taken but not in conjunction with the one you've just imbibed. I can only treat one malady, and the head cold is the most uncomfortable of the two." She turned to Ron whose arms were crossed over his chest and who wore a very unhappy look.

"As for you, Mr Weasley, you have a slight fever which is bound to develop into whatever Miss Granger has contracted. Your throat hurts, doesn't it?" she asked Ron, her eyes boring into him.

"Just a twinge," Ron admitted and Hermione was amazed that the school nurse could detect that just by looking at him.

"Well you'll just have to suffer through it," she handed him a lozenge, "but this should help at least a little. How's your, er, stomach feeling?" Madam Pomfrey asked and Hermione wondered what that had to do with anything.

"Just fine, thanks," Ron said, rather more sharply than Hermione would have expected and to her surprise Madam Pomfrey actually _smiled_. 

"Very well, Mr. Weasley, I see you wish to be left alone now. I've an engagement with Madam Pince for tea, anyway. She's gotten her hands on some Muggle volumes for the Muggle Studies collection and we've been especially enthralled with the works of one Jane Austen. But regardless, I'll leave you to get some rest. I'll trust you to behave yourself, Mr. Weasley," she said, the corners of her mouth in a twitch as she left the infirmary.

Hermione yawned. Having steam coming shooting out of one's ears tended to take a lot out of you. She turned to her side, however, towards Ron.

"What was that all about?" she asked him. He glared.

"I've absolutely no idea. I don't have a clue who Jane Astin is."

"Jane Austen, Ron. She's one of the greatest romance novelists of all time in the Muggle world," she said, yawning again. She was going to fall asleep soon, she knew it, was fighting slumber already.

"Oh," Ron responded.

"We can always ask her when she comes back," she yawned again, the words a mere thought that had entered her mind before sleep finally overtook her.

~*~

Ron was moaning pitifully in the bed beside her, complaining about a sore throat and aching neck. The sound had woken her from a dreamless slumber and she felt disoriented for a moment until she remembered that she'd been brought to the infirmary—much against her will, for that matter.

"For Merlin's sake, Ron, suck it up!" she snapped in her half-awaken state.

"That's easy for you to say, you're not in nearly as much pain as I am," he whined and Hermione opened her eyes to see him pouting at her from his bed. She closed her eyes and rolled onto her back, heaving an exasperated sigh that immediately turned into a coughing fit. By the time she'd regained breath again, her eyes were watery and her head was ringing.

"You know that cough sounds really bad; maybe you should see someone about it," he said and she threw him her version of a scathing look. Ron sighed in turn. "Jeez, why is it girls always have to be so grumpy when they're sick?" he asked, obviously rhetorically. He too turned onto his back, but brought a hand to his neck mid-movement. "Ow," he whined again.

"Why is it men always have to be such babies when _they're_ sick?" she asked though she doubted she'd ever get an answer to that particular question.

"I'm not a baby," she heard him whisper under his breath in the tone of a six-year-old. She was surprised not to see him cross his arms over his chest and huff.

"Fine," she said, deciding she'd play into his obvious demand for sympathy. "What's wrong?" she asked.

He turned his head towards her, his pouting better than she'd ever seen on any child. "My throat hurts," he said, "and my neck too, and the lozenge Madam Pomfrey gave me melted two hours ago and I can't fall asleep because this pillow is too lumpy—and my neck hurts," he mentioned for the second time.

Perhaps it was because it was impossibly not to respond to Ron's show, or perhaps it was merely the feelings she'd developed for him acting up in a moment of weakness, but Hermione climbed out of her bed and staggered over to Ron's.

"Hi," she said, crawling in beside him.

"Hi," he pouted.

"Where does your neck hurt?" He pointed with his index finger.

"There," he said.

"Fine, turn around and let me see what I can do," she said, taking him by the shoulders and turning him so that he was facing away from her.

This reminded her of that fateful day in Herbology where he'd washed her hair, and she wondered whether he got the same tingly feeling she'd had when he'd brushed his fingers inadvertently over the back of her neck _there_…and _here_.

She almost thought she'd detected a shiver from him, but then again that was probably just his fever talking.

"Better?" she asked, pulling hr hands away suddenly as she realized what she was doing. She was allowing her feelings to get the better of her again.

"Um yeah, thanks," was Ron's reply as he put his hand were hers had just been and moved his head from side to side as if to test the results.

"You should try to get some sleep," Hermione said, going to step out of the bed and return to her own, but Ron grabbed a hold of her wrist.

"No, stay. I can't sleep with this pillow anyway, it's too lumpy. And it's mighty warm in here isn't it? It's a wonder Madam Pomfrey doesn't melt in this place," Ron muttered and Hermione realized he was right. It really was quite stuffy in the room and Ron was, by his own admission, a very picky sleeper.

Hermione smiled as something struck her. "I have an idea."

~*~

It occurred to him that sleeping on a chilly stone floor was no way to get better, but the cold against his back felt much more soothing than the warm, stuffy confines of the hospital bed.

Hermione lay next to him, arm under her head, eyes gazing at the sheet they'd suspended between the bed frames so that it acted as a veil over their heads. This reminded him of the forts that he and his brothers used to construct in their childhood—using as many of their Mum's clean sheets as they could get their hands on.

"What's on your mind?" Hermione asked him and he turned his head towards her. She was watching him, almost studying him, Ron thought as he felt her eyes move over his face, and he immediately felt self-conscious.

"Nothing much, my childhood," he said, turning his eyes back to the cotton canopy above their heads. He still felt her eyes on him. It made him feel both excited and nervous. He wasn't sure whether he liked it.

"I see," she answered and he felt the tip of her fingers run over a section of his jaw. Her hands were cool against his skin but it felt as though he'd been burned. He jerked away in surprise, bringing his hand up to where she'd touched him.

"What?" he asked, annoyed that he would feel this way—pleased at the touch and yearning for more.

"Sorry," she said, his annoyance wasn't directed at her but she must have detected it. "You just," she explained, "missed a spot shaving," she said.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply so that when he next spoke his voice would be level. He didn't want her to think he was mad at her. He was mad at the world, mad at himself, but not at her—never at her.

"Oh," he said, attempting to smile despite the sudden difficulty of being so close to he and knowing it would never by anything other than friendship. "Well I hate shaving so when I do it it's usually quick and carefree." She smiled at those words.

"That would explain why you cut yourself, then." He wasn't aware that he had but it didn't really surprise him. In his hurry to get shaving over with he usually nicked himself at least once or twice.

"Where?" he asked, and his stomach lurched when she touched him again.

"Right here," she whispered. Then, "does it hurt?"

"Yeah." For a moment he'd forgotten that they were talking about his cut. He looked into her eyes and time for him seemed to stop as she met his gaze. He could feel his face moving closer to hers, felt the familiar pull in his chest as his lips began tingling the closer they got to hers.

Hermione wasn't pulling away, didn't seem disturbed by the fact that he was getting so near. It took all he had not to kiss her, to let his face hover a mere fraction of an inch away without breaking the short distance between them, but he couldn't take advantage of her while she was feverish and obviously didn't realize what he'd been about to do.

Ron didn't think it would have ever been possible in a million years but for a very brief fraction of a second, he'd almost wished he were more like Malfoy. _Almost_, if only for the fact that Malfoy wouldn't have hesitated to kiss Hermione, wouldn't have any qualms about kissing her even in her diminished state. And oh how Ron did want to kiss her—to the point where it almost hurt not to.

"What time is it?" he said instead, turning onto his back once more so that he wouldn't have to look at Hermione, wouldn't be tempted by the very sight of her to do something that would prove to be very foolish. When, after an extended silence, Hermione still hadn't answered, he risked a glance in her direction and saw that she had fallen asleep.

~*~

He woke up in his bed and thought for a moment that he'd imagined everything. Looking around he realized that Hermione was also in bed and that all signs of their makeshift accommodations from the night before had vanished.

For a moment he thought that he'd dreamed everything that had happened, happy for the fact that dreaming about wanting to kiss your best friend was a lot easier to accept than _living_ wanting to kiss your best friend.

He had almost convinced himself that everything had been a figment of his imagination when he saw Madam Pomfrey approach. The look on her face told him that everything he remembered had been very real—and she was not happy about it.

"Mr. Weasley," she said as she came to stand by his bed, hands on her hips. He realized that there was sunlight streaming in through the windows and concluded that it was morning. Ron swallowed hard in preparation for the verbal lashing he expected to get—his Mum had that same look when she was getting ready to yell at him, and so did Hermione for that matter. In swallowing, however, he realized that his throat felt as though a thousand little needles were stabbing it from the inside and he fell back against his pillow with a groan. 

Madam Pomfrey, seeing this, sighed and seemed to be biting her tongue against what she'd been about to say and instead handed him another lozenge.

"Here. I trust you're feeling bad enough already without my telling you what an outrage it was to find you and Miss Granger not only out of bed but sleeping on the floor. There are strict rules in this school about fraternisation between students, Mr. Weasley, and I trust that I won't have to remind you again that just because there are no separate lodgings in the infirmary as there are in the dormitories, it does not give you license to go—" but Ron interrupted her.

"I understand," he said, his head beginning to ache from the lecture she hadn't been supposed to give him. To his surprise, Madam Pomfrey actually smiled.

"Good. Because if you're going to be staying the week I don't want anymore—"

"_Week!?_" Had he just heard correctly? Did she really expect him to spend an entire week in the infirmary just for a little touch of a cold? But that was outrageous! "Madam Pomfrey, there's no way I'm going to stay cooped-up in here for an entire week! I—"

"Tut, tut, Mr Weasley. I don't want to hear another word of protest from you, or I'll have to report last night's incident to your head of house."

"But—"

"Tut!" Madam Pomfrey said again, and the first thought that came into Ron's head was _Hermione is going to be livid_.

"Fine," Ron backed down, now thinking of the lecture he would have to endure from McGonagall if Madam Pomfrey reported him.

"Good," the nurse said, turning as if to leave. "And one more thing, Mr. Weasley," she started.

"What's that?" Ron asked, now sulking.

"If you ever decide to repeat last night's episode," she said. _Here it comes, she's going to threaten expulsion_, he thought. "Just make sure I don't catch you, all right?" she finished, and he could hear the smile in her voice. She exited the infirmary and Ron was too flabbergasted by her words to respond.


	7. Days in the Infirmary

**Chapter 7**

****

It was once more to the sounds of muttering that Hermione awoke the next morning. She didn't feel any better than she had the day before and for a moment didn't find it odd that she'd returned to her hospital bed without any recollection of how it had happened. When the realization did come it did so with a wave of dizziness for she'd sat up in bed in order to better locate the voice that had woken her up. Any concern she may have felt at having mysteriously been moved vanished instantly.

"Off" she muttered as she waited for her eyes to come back into focus and for the spots to vanish from her view.

When she was able to see properly again, she zoned in on the mutters she was still hearing. She almost expected to see Dobby or one of the other house elves about, for that was exactly what the voice sounded like, but instead she saw that it was Ron who was pacing at the other side of the room, hands clasped behind his back, and head down turned. He almost reminded her of Percy, minus the glasses, walking back and forth that way, and the idea was so preposterous that she might have laughed at it. Percy and Ron were about as alike as Harry and his cousin Dudley.

She couldn't hear what he was saying from her position on the bed but he didn't look very happy, that was for sure.

"Ron? What are you muttering about?" she asked as she rubbed her eyes, throwing the blankets off of her and setting foot on the cold stone floor.

Ron stopped pacing and talking immediately and turned toward her.

"That woman," he started, pointing vaguely in the direction of the infirmary exit.

"Who? Professor McGonagall?" Hermione asked, trying to clarify things.

"_No_," Ron answered. "Madam Pomfrey," he said. "Do you know what she?...She actually thinks…She's got something else coming to her if she actually believes…arrgh!" he threw up his hands in frustration and Hermione could only watch, attempting to figure out what he was on about.

"Complete sentences may help right about now, Ron," Hermione said and Ron shot her a look. His voice was still hoarse from his cold but it was now also incredibly cracky in his excitement. He almost sounded fourteen again.

"That nurse is imprisoning us in here for a _week_. A week, Hermione, that's _seven days! How dare she do that? We're not even that sick!" though the last words came out as squeaks as his voice broke again._

Hermione might have said something had she not been in so much shock. A _week_? But, they were already missing one day of school today and Hermione had been planning on convincing Madam Pomfrey to attend her afternoon classes. But if the matron had already stated her intentions to keep them in here for an entire week, odds were she'd be hard-pressed to change her mind any time soon.

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked. Her voice had become nothing more than a squeak as well though not because of the news that she'd be spending a week in the infirmary but because of the sudden realization that she'd be spending a week in the infirmary _with Ron. The idea alone was making her palms sweat and her heart beat at an inordinate rate. She was going to be spending a __week, seven days, with him in the same room, in the bed next to his…of course he didn't seem to be seeing it in the same light. He seemed downright disgusted with the idea, in fact. A flash of disappointed bitterness slashed through her and she had to turn away from him, heading back to her bed to tidy up the sheets even though she knew very well that sometime during the day a house elf would be tending to it._

"Hermione, you can talk to her; she'll listen to _you_, won't she? She has to." But Hermione neglected to answer, not trusting her voice not to crack. Funny how she could go from total elation to absolute heartache in the space of two minutes. Why had she gone and fallen for her best friend, anyway? Why did stuff like this always happen to her?

~*~

The third of seven days in the infirmary passed just as the first two had. Ron was bored out of his mind and wanted more than ever to get out of the infirmary. He'd even told Hermione the night before that he would have taken Potions over the torture Madam Pomfrey was inflicting upon them. Of course, this wasn't absolutely true for there was on big advantage to being stuck in the infirmary with Hermione: he was stuck in the infirmary _with Hermione_. The fact was that she made it more than bearable to be here. In fact, he almost—okay, not even almost; he downright did enjoy being her with her. She just didn't seem to be sharing his views and the fact that _she so obviously despised being there with him was indication enough for Ron that there was no way that she reciprocated his feelings…feelings that Ron now admitted fully to himself despite the fear that his feelings for her were in fact growing every day. Of course, she seemed completely uninterested, and why should she be anything otherwise when he was nothing to her but a friend? He'd probably be nothing but that to her for the rest of his life. Girls like Hermione just didn't go for blokes like him. Why would they? Okay, he and Hermione got along better than anyone he knew, and okay they'd been friends for seven years, had faced death together countless times and had probably seen more of each other than most couples and Hogwarts had, but point was that she was _Hermione_, the most amazing girl he'd ever known and he, well, he was just Ron. No wonder she didn't have any feelings for him. And here he was, absolutely and completely enamored with this girl._

"Ron, what are you doing?" he heard her ask from the next bed and pulled back the curtain between them in order to look at her.

"Nothing," he replied, glumly. It wasn't even lunchtime and already he was bored completely out of his head. "You?"

"Same," Hermione said. "I _was reading but my head starts pounding every time I try working out one of these Arithmancy problems." Ron nearly snorted._

"Maybe Arithmancy is the problem rather than your head."

"Ron! Arithmancy is really a very valuable subject, you know! Merlin himself hailed its advantages and in 1783 Sir Richard Knightly of the Wizarding House of Earls said that—"

"Oy, Hermione, now _I'm getting the headache," he cut her off before she could continue. Hermione sighed._

"Well, what do you want to do, then?" she asked. Harry had brought up Ron's chess set earlier in the week. He also brought up their homework daily though he wouldn't be there for another several hours.

Ron's chess pieces had gone on strike for they had been used too repetitively over the past few days. In lieu of using chess as a distraction, then, Ron and Hermione had had to devise unusually ways of diverting themselves.

"Bed pan snap?" Ron asked, knowing what the answer would be.

"Ha! I think not," Hermione replied huffily. They'd developed the game the day before. Essentially a deck of exploding cards was split in two between both players. Each player then took turns aiming cards at a series of bed pans a few feet away from them. The goal was to flick the cards at the bed pans in such a way as to make them explode. The further bed pans counted for more points, of course, but the problem was that upon exploding, the cards made a sooty mess of the pans. Madam Pomfrey had been livid at discovering this and had assigned each the task of cleaning said bedpans. The fact that they were practically fighting for their lives was apparently of no concern to the woman!

So, armed with a bar of soap each they had cleaned up the mess they'd made and in so doing had invented another game: soap rolling. It looked as though Hermione was thinking of the very game as Ron watched her eyes dart over to the storage cabinet and come back to meet his own.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked.

She answered with a large grin and a twinkle in her eye.

~*~

"It's inside the line!" Hermione was protesting, but Ron shook his head.

"It's outside! Look, get up and come look at it from an aerial point," Ron argued. Hermione raised herself to her knees and leaned over to see, throwing him a "you are so going to be proven wrong" look as she did so.

"You see, I told you it was—grrr," she stopped mid sentence upon realizing that he was, of course, as right as could be. Ron bit his lip, then the inside of his cheek, and finally his tongue before he could hold it no longer. He burst out laughing.

"Oh, shut up," Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, her cheeks turning pink.

"Are you two still at it?" they heard a voice behind them and Ron turned to Harry, grinning.

"Are you kidding? Pretty soon we'll be forming our own association! We'll call it the SRA; that has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"It sounds like some kind of government war group," Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"Exactly," Ron grinned and saw her roll her eyes. He also heard her mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "boys" but decided to let it go.

"So what's the damage?" Ron turned to Harry as his friend handed him a small stack of papers. Ron looked at the papers and smiled. "That's it, eh? Well that's not so bad."

"Actually," Harry answered, reaching into his rucksack, "that's for Herbology." He pulled out an enormous stack of notes and assignments. "The just wouldn't fit into my bag; these are the rest of the notes and we've a three-foot Potions assignment to complete for Friday. Snape made sure to mention that you two aren't excused no matter how sick you are."

"Still has that gherkin up his—"

"Ron!" came the expected admonition and both he and Harry grinned knowingly at each other. It was so easy to get Hermione going…which was probably why they did it as often as they could.

"Sorry, Hermione," he said in a sing-song voice and she fought a smile.

"Yeah, yeah," she laughed. He noticed that she did not start coughing as she might have originally. Obviously she was getting over her cold which was a good sign…though it doubtfully meant that they would be getting out of there anytime soon. Madam Pomfrey was as stubborn as they came, probably even more so than McGonagall for that matter. It didn't matter how many times he and Hermione begged to get out of the infirmary, every time the answer was exactly the same as the last. At least she hadn't blackmailed him again, at least not with words. This, he suspected, was due mostly to the fact that Hermione was always in the room when these conversations took place. Madam Pomfrey was a clever witch, after all, and would never risk the chance of revealing herself though the meaningful glares (usually followed by secretive smiles) let Ron know unequivocally that she certainly meant business.

"Well, I suppose I should leave you to your soap throwing," Harry broke into his thoughts, making as if to leave.

"Soap _rolling, Harry," Hermione corrected him. "And please don't go yet? It's so boring when it's just the two of us. You've seen what we're capable of. Do you really want to leave us to our own devices? Pleaase?" she pouted, batting her eyelashes. Harry laughed and threw his hands up in defeat. Ron's heart skipped a beat at the victorious grin Hermione gave him and he managed a meek little smile in return._

"So," Harry broke the silence once more. "Show me how to play this game," he said and Ron was happy to turn away for a moment to get Harry a bar of "regulation" soap.

~*~

Night time was always the worst and most boring. No visitors were allowed after nine o'clock and Madam Pomfrey promptly kicked out any stragglers. Tonight it had been Neville who'd been shooed from the wing. He'd practically yelped when Madam Pomfrey had quite firmly announced that it was time for him to go, but he had given them an encouraging smile on his way out that told them to hang in there.

"How're we doing?" Ron asked Hermione. Having run out of any fun activity, they'd decided to get cracking on that day's homework pile. Ron had written all of two words of his Potions assignment—his name.

"Fin; I've finished copying down the Herbology notes and organized the new plants we're to learn in taxonomical order according to their Latin name, properties, and distinguishing characteristics. I also made a special section for those having medical properties. I haven't started my potions assignment but three feet is really nothing to worry too much about, especially considering how much there is to discuss on deprivation draughts. I could get three feet on just ocular deprivation draughts, especially after reading the Prophet article on the Irish wizard who accidentally put one in his neighbor's herd's drinking water and caused all the sheep to walk right over a cliff."

"Well if you're that gung-ho about it maybe you can help me write mine," Ron replied while he could get a word in edgewise. Hermione always got so excited about school. Even now she had a pinky glow to her cheeks and glitter in her eyes. Ron never felt that way about anything except maybe for Quidditch and chess. About school, though? He admitted that come the end of every summer there was an excitement at the prospect of returning to Hogwarts, every year with the resolution that he would be more like Hermione: more studious and less of a procrastinator. But about a week into classes, without fail, all of his good intentions crumbled. It seems as though Hermione was perpetually in that end of summer excitement stage, and it always amazed him to see her like this. But then again, he conceded, everything about her amazed him.

"We can go over it tomorrow, if you'd like," Hermione was telling him, snapping him back to reality. He nodded his head and gave her a non-committal "uh-huh." Hopefully she'd just give him the information he needed to write a mediocre paper and that would be that. Considering that Snape was still just as surly as ever, even if he handed in a stellar paper he wouldn't be seeing a grade fit for it, so what was the point in trying, anyway?

"I know what you're thinking, Ron, and if you think you can just regurgitate the information I give you into your paper then you're sadly mistaken. You should really try harder, Ron. You're really incredibly intelligent and yet it's like you don't care. You know if you tried just a little you could do so well."

"I'm doing okay," Ron defended.

"I know, and you barely do any work. Imagine how well you'd do if you just put some effort into it."

"Hermione—" Ron started. She'd been giving him this lecture for seven years and though he was flattered that she thought so highly of him, he knew that it was she who was sadly mistaken He certainly wasn't anywhere as intelligent as she seemed to think he was. "Hey, what's that?" he said wanting to change the subject. He pointed at the small roll of parchment hanging at the foot of her bed and saw that there was an identical, though slightly longer, roll at the foot of his. Hermione looked at what he was pointing.

"Oh, well they're our medical records, I would assume."

"You mean like what's wrong with us?"

"From the looks of it," Hermione unrolled her scroll, "it's everything we've ever been here for since we've gotten into Hogwarts."

"Wow, seven years of cuts and bruises and hexes gone awry," Ron marveled, scanning quickly over his files. "Imagine how thick Harry's scroll must be," Ron pointed out and Hermione chuckled.

"Or Neville's," she added and they both smiled.

"Hey, let me see yours," Ron said, holding out his parchment to her as means of a trade.

~*~

Hermione's eyes scanned quickly once over the scroll Ron had handed her before settling at the top and reading over each of the entries one at a time from when he'd been knocked out by the giant chess queen, to when he'd had his leg broken, to the night he'd been attacked by the brain. The most recent entry was very obviously the once concerning their present visit, but it was the entry just before that that caught her attention and made her chest constrict painfully.

The words blurred in front of her face as she read them, a list of bizarre symptoms which weren't "symptoms" at all and then a note in the margin in Madam Pomfrey's hand: "Mr. Weasley seems to be suffering every effect of someone having been administered a love potion though no such potion was detected in his system. As someone seemingly in love he is, however, denying such implications at this point. No treatment was administered."

Ron? In love? Hermione was afraid she would start crying. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. Any second, now; any second the tears would come rolling down her cheeks and she'd make a fool out of herself. Could one feel one's heart break? Hermione certainly could feel her shatter at the realization that the one person she felt closest to in the entire universe, the one person she couldn't imagine living her life without, was in fact in love with another.


End file.
